Huge Issues - Wednesday

'Spare some change man?’ Asks the rough sleeper, propped in a grubby sleeping bag in an empty shop doorway. He looks suitably forlorn and judging by the damp piece of cardboard he’s lying on, the scattering of meagre possessions and the slumbering mangy dog, tethered by a piece of string, he’s genuinely been here all night.

‘Sorry pal.' I say, even before I’ve fully considered my thoughts, and I play out a familiar pantomime of throwing my hands apart, palms up, to signify I’ve no cash. Of course I do have money and if he takes contactless cards payments, as some professional beggars are rumoured to do - because the Big Issue man can seemingly afford a mobile phone - then I could help him with the price of a coffee. But conversely, if I can’t afford to buy my caffeine fix at  Costa or Starbucks why should I pay for his full-fat latte and slice of over-priced brownie?

‘Probably wouldn’t spend it on a hot drink anyway.’ I mutter to myself, as I continue towards the office and stumble across another homeless man, in another empty shop unit doorway. Pleasingly, it’s a commercial unit that not too long ago housed a fledgling, cut-price fee, estate agency firm. I saw them out of business, as I’ve done many others over my career. There are no short-cuts to good service and a good reputation.

‘Can you help me out?’ Pleads the second vagrant, lying on another bed of commercial packaging that isn’t going to be recycled any time soon. He has the sort of impressive beard, that with a little grooming, would put the second-coming hipsters who do buy coffee around here, to shame.

I could help the man out, I could point him in the direction of the job centre and let him know that if he applies himself, takes a bit of pride in his appearance and doesn’t spend all his benefit money on cheap cider and roll-up cigarettes, then I could possibly rent him a studio flat in six months time. But nothing is ever that simple.

‘I’m all out man.’ I tell the bedraggled figure. I’m not. It’s a blatant lie, but I’m torn between wanting to help these people out and the nagging feeling I’m being played. Plus, estate agents do have a reputation to protect…

‘Have a good day anyway.’ Mutters the man into his voluminous beard. Bastard. He’s been on the guilt-trip-close, sale’s course. I’m half-tempted to turn around and give him a pound coin or two, but that nagging article a racist couple showed me in their Daily Mail a few weeks ago, as they bemoaned the country and planned their flight to somewhere sunnier, is lodged like a parasite in my brain.

‘You see that’s what they do.’ Said the husband earnestly, showing me the picture of some eastern European pair, parking their BMW on a meter for the day and heading to the west end of London for a lucrative day’s begging.

‘The country is going to the dogs.’ Echoed his sun-bleached wife. ‘That’s why we’re leaving.’

They’ll be back once one of them gets ill and they’ll doubtless wonder why the NHS can’t help them, because all the non-native care staff have also left the country. I’m not going anywhere. I had the chance long ago, and figured if you can’t make it here, in the birthplace of democracy, in one of the most - until now- welcoming and liberal societies on earth, you won’t be making it anywhere else, just because you need a stronger sun cream.

As I approach the office I notice two more commercial boards above recently vacated shops. A horrible feeling of deja vu engulfs me. I’ve seen decimated high streets before and failed estate agency firms, the whole thing has ominous portents. Maybe the only way to solve the UK housing crisis is for another big property recession? It’s like a turkey wishing for Christmas, I realise, and it could be me sleeping rough if it really bites.

‘Big Issue sir?’ Asks a gruff voice, from nowhere.

Yes it is.

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Turn Round At Earliest Opportunity - Friday

‘Not a great day out there.’ Pronounces assistant manger T somewhat superfluously. The rain is cascading down the window in a passable imitation of Victoria Falls and the wind is blowing umbrellas inside out providing a modicum of entertainment in the absence of any internet sites to look at, that haven’t been blocked by head office.

‘Not likely to be many buyers about today then boss?’ Asks idiot trainee F. I decide to enlighten him, might as well pass the experience along even though he has the retention qualities of a sieve.

‘Funnily enough,’ I begin to what sounds like an ill-suppressed sigh from B the lettings lush. ‘The time-wasters will continue to come at a steady rate, no matter what the market or the weather. And the deadly serious buyers will also keep searching, despite a monsoon.’

‘Just tell them not to offer on a new-build on a flood plain.’ Says T with a chuckle.

‘Yes,’ agrees negotiator S with a warming smile. ‘Meadow View, or River Walk should have been all the clues you needed.’

‘Serves them right.’ Says B sourly. ‘It’s better to rent than buy when the market is artificially high.’

‘Or the water table.’ Laughs T.

I should pick B up on the negative spin on the property market. Refer her to one of the numerous surveys - commissioned spookily enough by banks and other lenders mostly - forecasting an upwards only trend for average home values. Isaac Newton wouldn’t get much change out of those particular mortgage floggers – particularly as a self-employed inventor without a sizeable deposit and three years of audited accounts.

The truth is my forecasts on where prices will go have proved woefully inaccurate over the years, despite a couple of market crashes along with rampant price inflation at all odds with conventional wisdom. The local market, with its insular motivators of demand, supply, schooling and employment never bares that much resemblance to national figures anyway and the central London market might as well be on the dark side of the moon.

‘What about this woman?’ Questions F, looking at late-fifties matriarch struggling against the gale but looking to cross the road in our direction. I look the subject up and down. You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover but you can speculate on the contents without needing an Amazon review. Particularly as that website is blocked too.

‘It’s best if the couple are together.’ I suggest watching the woman’s laboured progress.

‘That’s a bit sexist.’ Snaps B, possibly hung-over, possibly pre-menstrual it’s hard to tell.

‘Yes,’ agree S unhelpfully. ‘Women buy property on their own too, you know.’

‘Only if the divorce settlement has come through.’ Sneers tubby mortgage man M with feeling.

‘Women are usually the decision makers when it comes to buying a home.’ I soothe, not wanting an argument, or any more forms to fill in from Human Resources Department. ‘It’s just you are more likely to have a chance to clinch a sale if both parties are out looking.’ I sense an uneasy consensus as the unwitting subject of our discussion braves a gap in the traffic and heads our way.

‘Probably just wants to use the toilets or ask if we have free Wi-Fi?’ Grumbles M. Granted it is an annoyingly regular occurrence, particularly as the local council seem intent on shutting all the public conveniences down and sending the cottagers and junkies who can’t afford Starbucks rates, into estate agents who made the mistake of providing coffee machines in a management consultancy-led dash to a brave new Fair Trade World that doesn’t include us - or a minimum standard of competency.

‘I’m guessing she just wants a free map.’ Speculates T. ‘She looks too old to have a smartphone and Google earth.’

‘Well we haven’t got any left.’ Says B. ‘We just ended up giving them to day-trippers and lost kids doing their Duke of Edinburgh’s Award.’

We didn’t. Not the latter at least. Nobody in their right mind would try camping out round here. All the shop doorways are full by 9.00pm.

The woman finally arrives at the window, looks each side of the door, shrugs then moves on.

Bit of a damp squib.

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